the Romanov Prophecy (2004) (37 page)

Maks thought of objecting but it would show weakness, and that was the last thing he wanted to demonstrate before these men. He had their confidence. Most important, he had Yurovsky’s confidence, and that was something he would need in the days ahead. Without saying a word, he tied a rope around his waist and two men slowly lowered him into the shaft. The black clay was oily to the touch. A bituminous stench mixed with mildew and lichens permeated the cold air. But there was also another odor, one more pungent and sickly sweet. One he’d smelled before. The scent of decaying flesh.

Fifty feet down, his torch illuminated a pool. In the flickering light he saw an arm, a leg, the back of a head. He called up for the lowering to stop. He hovered just above the surface.

“Down. Slow,” he yelled.

His right boot touched, then submerged. The water was icy. A chill swept through him as his legs were soaked. Luckily, the water was only waist-deep. He stood shivering and called out that they should stop lowering.

Another rope suddenly fell from above. He knew what it was for. He reached over and grabbed its end. Yurovsky’s grenades had apparently done little damage. He reached out for the closest body part and pulled naked flesh toward him. It was Nicholas. Maks stared down at the mutilated tsar, the face barely recognizable. He remembered the man as he was. Slender body, square face, impressive beard, expressive eyes.

He tied the rope around the corpse and signaled that it should be raised. But the earth seemed not to want to yield its charge. Water gushed from the lifeless shell. Limp muscles and flesh gave way, and Nicholas II crashed back into the pool.

Frigid water drenched Maks’s face and hair.

The rope dropped back down. He waded to the corpse and this time tied the noose tighter, pinching the torso and tearing flesh.

It took three more attempts to lift the tsar from the shaft.

Fighting back nausea, he repeated the task eight more times. It took hours to finish, the cold, darkness, and decay complicating everything. He’d gone back up three times to warm himself by a fire, the water chilling him to the bone. When he was lifted out the final time, the sun was high in the sky and nine mutilated corpses lay on the wet grass.

One of the men produced a blanket for Maks. The dry wool smelled of ox, but felt good.

“Let’s just bury them here,” one of the men said.

Yurovsky shook his head. “Not in this mud. The grave would be easily discovered. We need to transport them to a new site. These demons need to be covered forever. I’m tired of seeing their cursed faces. Bring the carts forward. We’ll take them to a new place.”

Three flimsy wooden carts were rolled from where the cars were parked. The wheels bucked on the rough, muddy ground. Maks stood with the blanket wrapped around him, near Yurovsky, waiting for men and carts to draw near.

Yurovsky stood rigid, staring down at the bloated bodies. “Where could the other two be?”

“Not here,” Maks answered.

The burly Jew’s glare came with the speed and accuracy of a bullet. “I wonder if that might one day be a problem.”

Maks considered whether the short-necked man in the black leather jacket standing before him knew more than he should. Then he dismissed the thought. Those two missing corpses could mean Yurovsky’s life. No way he’d let that pass.

“How could it be?” Maks asked. “They are dead. Is that not all that matters? A body is just confirmation.”

The commandant stepped close to one of the females. “I fear we have not heard the last of these Romanovs.”

Maks said nothing. The comment had not called for a response.

The nine bodies were tossed onto the carts, three each, a blanket draped over the piles and pinned tight beneath. Then they rested for a few hours and ate black bread and garlic ham. It was midafternoon when they finally started off toward the new site. The road was a decayed mass of rutted mud. The word had been passed the day before that White Army forces were lurking in the woods. Red search parties would be on the move. Any of the villagers found in the restricted area would be shot. The hope was that the warning would provide some measure of privacy so they could finish their task.

Less than two miles passed before one of the carts’ axles broke. Yurovsky, following in a car, ordered the procession stopped.

The other two carts were not in any better shape.

“Stay here and guard,” Yurovsky ordered. “I’ll drive into town and find a truck.”

Darkness had enveloped them by the time the commandant returned. The bodies were transferred to the truck bed and the trip resumed. One of the vehicle’s headlights did not work, and the other barely pierced the coal-black night. The wheels seemed to find every pothole in the muddy road. The going was further slowed by planking that had to be spread periodically to negotiate the slippery ground. Four times the tires bogged and had to be forced forward with backbreaking efforts.

They stopped to rest again for an hour.

July 17 became July 18.

It was nearly five
AM
when the mud caught wheels again, this time permanently, and no amount of effort could vanquish the earth’s grip. It did not help that they were all exhausted from the past two days.

“This truck is going nowhere,” one of the men finally said.

Yurovsky looked skyward. Dawn was not far away. “I’ve lived with the corpses of these stinking royals for three days. Enough. We’ll bury them right here.”

“In the roadway?” one of the men asked.

“Precisely. This is the perfect spot. This whole thing stays a mud bog. No one would notice our digging.”

Shovels were fetched and a common grave about eight feet square and six feet deep was dug. The bodies were tossed in, faces doused with sulfuric acid to prevent any subsequent identification. The hole was filled and covered with branches, lime, and planks. The truck was finally freed and the site driven over several times. When they finished, no evidence remained of their digging.

“We are twelve miles to the northwest of Yekaterinburg,” Yurovsky said. “From where the railroad tracks cross the road, it is about seven hundred feet in the direction of the Isetsk factory. Remember this spot. It is where our glorious tsar will rest. Forever.”

Lord saw the emotion on Thorn’s face.

“They left them there. In the mud. And there they stayed until 1979. One of the searchers, at the time, was quoted as saying when they dug into the ground and found planking, ‘Let me find nothing underneath.’ But they did. Nine skeletons. My family.” Thorn stared at the carpeted floor. A car passed on the street below. Finally, the lawyer said, “I’ve seen pictures of the bones resting on lab tables. It shames me to see them displayed like museum curiosities.”

“They couldn’t even agree on where to finally bury them,” Akilina said.

Lord recalled how the battle had raged for years. Yekaterinburg claimed the family should be interred there, where they had died. St. Petersburg urged that they be laid to rest in the Cathedral of Peter and Paul, where all the previous tsars were interred. But the debate was not over respect or protocol. Yekaterinburg officials saw a revenue potential in having the last tsar buried nearby. So did St. Petersburg. And just as Thorn had said, while the argument continued for nearly eight years, the remains of the imperial family rested on metal shelving in a Siberian laboratory. St. Petersburg eventually won after a government commission decided all nine skeletons should be buried with the remaining Romanovs. The whole affair was another Yeltsin fiasco in which he tried to offend no one and irritated everyone.

Thorn’s face screwed tight. “So many of my grandfather’s things were sold by Stalin to raise money. Years ago, my father and I went to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts to see an icon of St. Pantalemion that monks gave to Alexie when he was once very sick. It used to be in his room at the Alexander Palace. I read recently where a pair of his skis were sold at auction in New York.” He shook his head. “The damn Soviets hated anything imperial, but had no problem using that heritage to finance their evil.”

Lord asked, “Was it because of what Kolya Maks did that Yussoupov entrusted him with the first piece of the puzzle?”

“He was the ideal choice, and apparently kept the secret even in his grave. His son and nephew did well, too. God rest their souls.”

“The world has to know this,” Lord said.

Thorn heaved a deep sigh. “Do you think Russia will accept an American-born tsar?”

“What does that matter?” Akilina quickly asked. “You are a Romanov. Pure to the bone.”

“Russia is a complicated place,” Thorn said.

“The people want only you,” she made clear.

Thorn smiled weakly. “Let’s hope your confidence is infectious.”

“You will see,” she said. “The people will accept you. The world will accept you.”

Lord stepped to the phone beside the bed. “I’m calling the man I work for. He’s got to know this. The commission vote must be stopped.”

No one said a word as he dialed long distance for Pridgen & Woodworth’s Atlanta office. It was nearly seven
PM
, but the firm operated around the clock. Secretaries, paralegals, and lawyers worked throughout the night to accommodate satellite offices and clients scattered in every time zone.

The switchboard directed his call to Hayes’s night secretary, whom he knew well from many long evenings at his own desk.

“Melinda, I have to talk with Taylor. When he calls in from Russia—”

“He’s on the other line, Miles. He told me to put him on hold when they buzzed your call through.”

“Make it a conference.”

“I’m already pushing the buttons.”

A few seconds later Hayes came on the line. “Miles, where are you?”

He took a few minutes and explained everything. Hayes listened in silence, then said, “You’re telling me that the heir to the Romanov throne is sitting there with you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“No doubt?”

“None to me. But DNA will put any questions to rest.”

“Miles. Listen and listen good. I want you to stay right there. Don’t leave that town. Give me the name of the place you’re staying.”

He did.

“Don’t leave that inn. I’ll be there by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll get the first plane out of Moscow for New York. This has to be handled carefully. When I get there, we’ll involve the State Department and whoever else we need. I’ll be in touch with the right people while en route. I’ll take care of this from now on. You got that?”

“I understand.”

“I hope so. I’m pissed as hell you’ve waited until now to call.”

“The phones are not safe. I’m not even sure about now.”

“This phone is clean. I guarantee it.”

“I’m sorry about not involving you, Taylor. But I had no choice. I’ll explain all of it when you get here.”

“I can hardly wait. Now get some sleep and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

FORTY-FIVE

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 21
9:40 AM

Lord followed the directions Michael Thorn provided. The lawyer sat in the backseat of the Jeep Cherokee he’d rented yesterday at the Asheville airport. Akilina filled on the front passenger’s seat.

Lord and Akilina had spent a restless night at the Azalea Inn, both deeply affected by what they’d found. There was no doubt in Lord’s mind the balding, middle-aged man with soft gray eyes sitting behind him was heir to the Romanov throne. Who else would have known exactly how to respond? Not to mention possessing the gold clapper that formed the bell. He’d satisfied all the criteria Yussoupov had established to confirm his identity. Science could now provide undisputed verification in the form of DNA testing, which surely the Tsarist Commission would order.

“Turn up there, Miles,” Thorn said.

They’d gone to first names last night after two hours of conversation and the call to Taylor Hayes. At breakfast Thorn had asked if they would like to see the graves. Lord recalled Hayes’s instruction to stay close but didn’t think a short trip would be a problem, so they’d driven a few miles south of Genesis into a lovely hollow of copper and gold trees. The day was bright and sunny. Like an omen from heaven, Lord thought, that everything was going to be all right.

But was it?

Here, in this tiny corner of America, known for homespun Appalachian common sense and misty blue ridges, lived the Tsar of All Russia. A country lawyer college-educated at the University of North Carolina, then at nearby Duke for law school. All paid for by a student loan and part-time jobs that helped feed a wife and two kids.

Thorn had told them all about himself. They were entitled to know. He’d come back to Genesis after graduating and had practiced law the past twenty-four years, opening an office and making sure a shingle hung outside for all to see. That had been one of Yussoupov’s instructions. A way to mark the trail. Of course the odd little Russian had never conceived of computers, satellite communications, and the Internet, or the ability to locate someone with the push of a button, a world so small that there were few, if any, places left to hide. Yet Kolya Maks and Thorn’s father, along with Thorn himself, had adhered to Yussoupov’s instructions, and that single-minded determination had paid off.